"Okay, what's the test, Ben? Or am I not supposed to know?"

  "I'll tell you. Remember when she gave me notice she said she had a job modeling at Marshall Field's? And I said we might as well check on that and that I'd do it. Well, I did—and she hasn't a job there. They never heard of her.

  "So we've caught her in a lie—to me. See what she tells you about why she's quitting my agency and where she's going to work next. If she gives you Marshall Field's, well, then she's lying to you too."

  Uncle Am said, "Fair enough, Ed? Listen, you said you were going to check into something there at the rooming house this morning. What was it? Something important?"

  I don't know," I said. "But it'll take some time to tell, we're all out of drinks. Shall we—?"

  Ben Starlock was already flagging down the waiter again.

  I told them about my fight with Blackie, about what had led up to it, and about what Mrs. Czerny had told me about him afterwards.

  This time it was Uncle Am who was frowning when I finished. "Kid," he said, "that guy could be dangerous. Stay away from him."

  Starlock nodded. "Keep out of trouble with him, Ed. But I'm curious about him. Listen, let me check on him. I'll find out from Frank Bassett whether he has a record, and I'll check on him out at the Gray Goose and see if he really works there and for how long."

  Uncle Am said, "Let me do that, Ben. I know Leon Cavallo, who runs the place, or used to, anyway. I guess he still does. And if he does, I can get more out of him than you can. Or the cops, for that matter."

  Ben grunted. "I suppose you'll want to see him during night club hours, so you can run up a bill for the expense account."

  Uncle Am said, "I'll get more out of him that way. He'll be in a better mood."

  I said, "Leon Cavallo. Is he an opera fan? Or does that just happen to be his right name?"

  "He's an opera fan. And it's partly his right name—the Cavallo part. He had an unpronounceable first name and changed it to Leon. On purpose, sure."

  Starlock looked from one of us to the other. "What are you guys talking about?"

  I said, "Leoncavallo—all one name, famous opera composer, best known for Pagliacci, the one about the clown."

  Starlock said, "You erudite bastards. All right, Am, you can see this Cavallo. And you might as well call Bassett to find out if this Black guy has a record. But don't charge me for that. Not even a dime for the phone call— make it from your office." He turned to me. "Ed, is there any chance this Black made you for a detective?"

  "He couldn't have, any way I know, unless Wanda told him. I don't think she did, or would have, but that's high on my list of things to find out from her tonight and what the relationship between them is, if any. If any, it's probably one-sided; I can't see a gal like that going for a gorilla like him."

  "You were unconscious a while after he kayoed you. Could he have gone through your pockets?"

  I shook my head. "My identification was in my coat. I left it in my room and locked the door before we headed for our little romp in the alley."

  "But you'd have had the key to your room in your pants pocket. Could he have taken that and let himself in your room while you were out, and then come back?"

  "I couldn't have been out that long. A ten count probably, maybe even half a minute or so. But I know the timing—when we went to the alley, when I got back to my room. I couldn't have been out long enough for him to do that."

  I thought a minute. "Besides," I said, "if he even suspected me of being a detective, I don't think he'd have risked picking a fight with me like he did—whether he's involved in our case in any way or not. He'd have walked wide around me."

  "Guess you're right about that," Starlock said. He glanced at his watch. "Hell, we've been yakking an hour, and I've got a lot of work to do this afternoon. Let's order and eat."

  We ordered and ate, and then broke up the meeting. Uncle Am told me to take off the afternoon if I wanted, but I said I'd as soon hang around the office as anywhere else and went back with him.

  In the office he said, "Well, kid, some rummy?"

  "Call Bassett first," I suggested, "and get business over with."

  He called Frank Bassett—our best friend at headquarters—and I heard him ask about Jules Black and then say, "Okay, Frank. But don't hang up yet. Another question. Do you know if Cavallo still runs the Gray Goose? . . . Good. Happen to know how I can reach him to make a date with him? Away from the club, I mean? . . . Okay, Frank; we'll be here."

  He hung up and said, "Frank doesn't know the name Jules Black but he'll have him looked up in the files. And he doesn't know Cavallo personally, but he says a couple of the boys there do and he'll talk to them if they're in. Well, get the cards and the score pad."

  We'd finished one game by the time the phone rang. I said, "It's probably Frank. Wait till I get on the extension."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I went to the outer office and got the extension picked up just in time to hear Uncle Am answer the call. It was Bassett.

  He said, "Yeah, there's a record on a Jules Black, alias Blackie. Not an awful lot, but something. Five arrests, one conviction. The conviction was—let's see, on the first arrest, nine years ago. Mugging. Gave his age as twenty-two then —make him thirty-one now. He got two years, did twenty months of it. Picked up four times since then—first time was two years after he got out of jail—but none of the charges stuck. Went to trial on only one of them, but got off."

  "What were the charges, Frank?"

  "Mugging twice, assault twice. It was an assault charge that got him before a judge, but, like I say, he got an acquittal. Haven't the details here, but I could dig them."

  "Thanks, Frank, but I don't think we'll need them. What was the date of the last arrest?"

  "Two years ago. Either he's been keeping his nose clean since then, or we haven't been catching him at anything."

  "Okay. How about Cavallo?"

  "Talked to one of the boys that know him. Says that Cavallo isn't at the club too often on weekday nights, but he's there every Saturday night, and most Sunday nights. And I got his address—an apartment on La Salle—but no phone number". It's probably unlisted, but I can get it for you if it's important."

  Uncle Am said, "Don't bother, Frank. As long as I can count on catching him at the club tomorrow night, it'll keep till then. Oh, you know if the gambling rooms over the Goose are open again?"

  "My friend says not, that Cavallo's kept 'em closed since the raid couple of years ago. Guess he's still got his other business, though."

  When I rejoined Uncle Am after the call I asked him, "What's Cavallo's other business?"

  "He's with the syndicate that controls the bookies on the north side. I've heard that he's head of the syndicate, and also that he's just a member of it. I don't know which is true, but it's a big operation in any case. Running the night club is just a side line for him. Or a front, if you want to put it that way."

  "Then basically he's a racketeer."

  "Well, books are illegal, so I suppose you could put it that way. But morally, is it any worse to bet with a bookie than to bet at a track?"

  "Maybe not. But what do the bookies get out of belonging?"

  "About the same advantages someone in a legal trade gets out of belonging to a union. Maybe more. Protection, legal help, and bail when the protection doesn't work. A chance to lay off money if one takes a bet too big for him to pay off on if it wins. Once in a while a bookie won't lay off, takes a chance, and goes in over his head. They'll pay off for him—and get the money back from him later. They keep the boys in line. If you make a bet with any bookie in syndicate territory you know you're going to collect if you win."

  "But the bookie has to belong, or else?"

  "Or else he doesn't stay in business very long, sure. But that doesn't mean he's going to be rubbed out, or even worked over. At least not since they've got things as well organized as they have now. They've got subtler ways."

  "Such as?"

  "Protection in reverse, for one thing. Someone always seems to be phoning in complaints to the cops. Or they stick him on a boat race, a fixed race. Most races are honest these days, but once in a while there's a boat race —and usually the syndicate knows about it. They warn their own boys not to take any big bets on it. But the outlaw bookie finds himself stuck with some big ones— syndicate money, but laid through people who've established themselves as his customers. And who've also spread the tip to other customers of his, legitimate ones. And he pays off or goes out of business. If he survives, he sees the light and joins up."

  "You mean they don't use goons at all?"

  "I suppose so, but only in extreme cases. Or even torpedoes, if they have to meet violence with violence."

  "Do you suppose Blackie is one of the goons?"

  "I doubt it, kid. If he's holding a full-time job as doorman-bouncer at the club, I'd say that's all he does. I don't think Leon mixes club business with syndicate business. But I'll ask him. Say, let's have a look at the key to your room."

  I handed it over and he looked at it and handed it back. "Hell, that kind of lock. I could open one with a bobby pin in half a minute, with a picklock in five seconds. And I'd like a look around Blackie's room. He's the only lead we've got—even if we don't know what he's a lead to. He'll be working tonight; maybe I'll go around and case the room."

  I said, "Okay, but not tonight. Wait till sometime when I can play lookout for you; it'll be safer. Besides, I might find out something from Wanda, or you from Cavallo, that will eliminate him and save us from having to do it."

  "Okay, Ed. That makes sense. Well, get out the cards."

  I got out the cards and score pad and we started a game of gin, but we were only about halfway through when the phone rang. Uncle Am answered it and I went to listen in. It was a job for us. The caller was a Mr. Mabley, general manager of a chain of supermarkets, for whom we'd done small jobs a few times before. This time there'd been a burglary at their store on Howard two nights ago. They didn't want us to investigate the burglary as such; there was nothing we could do there that the police couldn't do better, and the police didn't have any leads. But there was a suspicion that there was an inside angle to the job because the burglar hadn't had to blow or force the safe, which meant that he was either a real Jimmy Valentine with sandpapered fingers—or that he'd been tipped off to the combination. Also he'd picked a good night for the burglary; the manager had missed making a deposit the day before and there had been two days' receipts in the safe instead of one.

  Only the manager had the combination to the safe, but he'd been with the company for eighteen years and was a relative of one of the owners to boot; they considered him above suspicion. However, they were worried about the assistant manager, who'd been with them only a short time, and wanted him investigated. He wasn't supposed to have known the combination but there were ways he might have found it out. And he certainly knew that the safe held two days' receipts that particular night. They didn't suspect him of doing the job himself; the police had talked to him and had verified his alibi; the burglary had been committed before midnight and he'd been able to account for all his time up to then. But if he had known the combination he could easily have been the tip-off man.

  Mr. Mabley didn't expect us to be able to prove it if he had been but he thought a short investigation should give enough indication one way or the other to let them make up their minds whether to keep him or play safe by letting him go. They wanted to know how his scale of living compared with the eighty dollars a week they paid him, whether he gambled, whether he was or had been in debt, his general character and reputation, and especially whether he consorted with criminals or hung out at places where he'd be likely to get to know any. Mr. Mabley authorized three days' time on the job; that was as much as they wanted to spend and they'd make up their minds on the basis of what we could find out in that length of time.

  When he started to give us our starting data—the man's address, description, and other things already known about him, Uncle Am told him to wait a minute, put his hand over the phone and called out to me, "I'll be handling this one, Ed, so I'll take the notes on it. You can sign off if you want."

  I kept on listening but let Uncle Am take the notes.

  When I went back into the inner office he was standing up, stretching. "Going to start on if right away?"

  "Why not? It's mid-afternoon but if I work through the evening, it'll be a full day for today. Another day, another dollar. At this rate, we'll get rich quick. You going to stick around? With you with a date for this evening, you'd have to turn down another job if one came in."

  "I'll stick around anyway," I said. "It might be something that doesn't have to be done right away. You'll still be busy tomorrow but I don't know whether I'll be or not. Depends on what happens tonight."

  He left, and I stuck around until five, but the only thing that happened was a call from an office equipment salesman who tried to sell me an addressing machine, a check writer, a dictating machine, a comptometer, and a few other little items. I finally convinced him that we didn't need any of those things.

  I closed the office at five and went home. Home to my and Uncle Am's room at Mrs. Brady's, not to my room at Mrs. Czerny's. I'd thought it out and had decided it was best for me to stay away from there until time to pick up Wanda at six-thirty. I wanted to avoid further trouble with Blackie, particularly tonight, if possible. If he was there and in his room, he'd hear me in mine if I entered it. And he could hear me leave and if he listened at his door he could tell that I was going upstairs instead of out. And he'd know where I was going and might call my bluff on an assault charge and start another fight. Or be mad enough to clobber me again, assault charge or not.

  Anyway, I wanted to change suits and I hadn't packed an extra one to take to Covent Place. I did that first, and then messed around on my trombone for half an hour or so until time to leave.

  I got to Mrs. Czerny's on the stroke of half past six, bypassed my room, and went up the stairs and knocked on Wanda Roger's door.

  Amazingly, she was ready. She called out, "Just a second, Ed," and came out in only a few seconds, just long enough for her to put on the coat she was wearing—the tan shortie she'd worn when Uncle Am had followed her home from work last night. It was open, and under it she wore a taffeta dress with wide pink and white diagonal stripes that made her look like a peppermint stick—except for shape; she wasn't shaped in the least like a peppermint stick, and she looked much sweeter than one. It was cut low in front and from that and its length I knew, without being able to see shoulders or arms, that the dress was formal or at least semiformal.

  "Hi," I said. "You're beautiful. But we should have compared notes on dressing; I should have worn a tux."

  She looked concerned. "Want me to change, Ed? It'd take only a couple of minutes."

  "No," I said. "You're perfect. And luckily I at least wore a dark suit; I'll get by. Nobody will look at me anyway."

  She laughed and pulled the door shut behind her. I said, "But will you do me a favor, Wanda? Let's not talk on our way down the stairs and through the hallway—not till we're outside. Ill explain after we're out; it might lead to quite a bit of explaining. Okay?"

  She looked puzzled, but she said, "Okay, Ed. If you explain once we're outside."

  So we went down the stairs and along the hall together but without talking, and outside.

  "Now, Ed, what was that all about?" she asked, the moment we reached the sidewalk.

  "First, where do you want to go, Wanda? We might as well be walking, or scouting for a taxi, while we talk."

  She thought a moment. "You mentioned Ireland's—and that sounds fine. And it's walking distance, so let's walk."

  "Fine," I said. We started west toward Clark Street. She tucked a hand under my arm companionably; I like a girl who does that instead of walking apart from you. I said, "In a nutshell, which I'll explain later, there is a character named Jules Black, or Blackie, in the room next to me. He and I had a little trouble this morning—over you. In case he was in his room when we passed it, I didn't want him to hear us talking together."

  "You had trouble with Blackie—over me?" She sounded really bewildered. "What on earth happened?"

  I told her what on earth had happened. Not in exact detail or word for word, but what I did tell her was the exact truth. I didn't try to make myself more of a coward or more of a hero than I had actually been—or Blackie more of a villain. When I finished the episode I said, "And now it's your turn. Tell me everything you know about Blackie. From the beginning."

  "All right, Ed. The beginning was—oh, maybe three weeks ago, less than a week after I'd moved there. I'd brought enough clothes with me, when I'd come into town from Freeland, to last me a while, but I wanted some more and one evening, right after I left work and had a quick dinner, I went out to Freeland, to the house, and got two more suitcases full of clothes and things I wanted. Blackie —of course I didn't know his name then—happened to be using the phone and finished his call just as I came back. He asked me if he could carry the suitcases for me and, since they were heavy, I let him carry them upstairs and into my room.

  "He was polite, nice. He didn't even try to get to know me, left as soon as he put them down. I unpacked them and then, because it was only half past eight and I didn't know what else to do with myself I decided to go to a movie. I went downstairs and outside, and he was standing there, getting some fresh air, he said later. Since he'd carried the cases up for me I stopped to talk a moment and—well, it ended up with his saying he'd like to see a movie too and why couldn't we go together? There wasn't any reason so I said yes. I tried to make it Dutch, but he insisted on buying my ticket."

  "This would have been on a Thursday evening?"

  "How did— Oh, you found out Thursday is his night off. Yes, it was a Thursday. Other nights he starts work at nine; he might still be around as late as when I first met him, but he wouldn't have been free to go to a movie. He's doorman at a night club, the Gray Goose. But I guess if you know his night off, you know that too."

 

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